


The Suit

by ohsocyanide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohsocyanide/pseuds/ohsocyanide
Summary: Greg only ever wore the suit for one reason.





	The Suit

Detective Inspector Gregory Holmes-Lestrade was somehow not surprised to see Anthea seated at his desk the morning of Valentine’s Day.

Mycroft and Greg had made plans weeks ago—something small, a night in with a good port and sweets from Mycroft’s favorite bakery. Yet as the days leading up to the fourteenth passed, Greg’s mentions of Valentine’s Day had gone largely unnoticed, agreeance to plans shifting to the barest hums of acknowledgement. Mycroft’s silence hadn’t surprised him at first, not really: he didn’t much care for celebrations outside of Greg’s birthday; Valentine’s Day would be no exception. They were two middle-aged men, for one. After three years together, Greg reasoned, he supposed he shouldn’t have been looking forward to it as greatly as he was. Three years, three separate excursions: Annecy in Rhone-Alpes the first year, St. Moretz the next, then Florence for their honeymoon the fall of that same year. He never expected the trips or the gifts; he would’ve been perfectly happy with a new pair of socks or a simple box of chocolates. Mycroft claimed that if he didn’t set aside time for excursions as they had in the past, the holiday was likely to go unnoticed. He would inevitably delegate gift-purchasing to Anthea at the last minute, and Greg would spend the evening alone at the pub while Mycroft worked late into the evening. Things were simpler the way they had done them in the past, Mycroft said.

Greg had been looking forward to an evening in with his new husband this time around. He’d checked and double-checked with Mycroft that his schedule remained free and clear, he’d phoned Lily Vanilli to place an order, and he’d called in more favors than he’d like to note to ensure he had the day _after_ off. Mycroft had claimed to have taken the fifteenth off for a proper lie-in—as proper of one as Mycroft Holmes was likely to have, mind you—and Greg had planned on a lazy morning of slow hands and tired smiles, half-breaths huffing between their bodies as they made love.

The sight of Anthea and the garment bag hanging behind her told Greg everything he needed to know.

“So,” Greg sighed, shrugging out of his coat and dropping into the chair across from his usual seat behind the desk. He reached for the coffee she’d brought him and took a sip. “Why’s he sent you? Off to Asia this time, or have more royal nudes leaked?”

She barely glanced up from her Blackberry. “An American political appointee has requested his presence at Hélène Darroze at The Connaught this evening. Mr. Holmes-Lestrade would like for you to accompany him.”

 

There was the unspoken implication that Greg would, for lack of a better term, be going as the missus tonight. Mycroft rarely asked Greg to accompany him to business dinners unless those he met with brought their spouses. People—officials and their wives—liked seeing Mycroft Holmes, the British government, lower himself to the standards of the masses through marriage to an East End copper. The few times Greg had gone to business dinners with Mycroft, the wives loved that Greg talked a little too loud, let a few too many _pisses_ and _fucks_ slip in idle conversation. Being in a partnership with someone like Greg humanized Mycroft in others’ eyes. Greg didn’t understand it. Mycroft was human without Greg; most simply failed to see it.

 

“Right. I’m guessing a text wouldn’t suffice? A phone call, maybe?”

 

Anthea raised a single brow at Greg, eyes finally leaving her phone screen. “Mr. Holmes-Lestrade is in the middle of a conference call; he is unable to phone at the moment. He extends his apologies.”

 

Greg stood, paced in front of the desk. He could have gotten angry over the situation easily, but he knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Oftentimes, work came first for both of them. Greg had canceled plans at the last minute more times than he could count to finish investigations and manage crime scenes. Greg’d done his fair share of all but standing Mycroft up just so he could drag Sherlock out of whatever trouble he’d managed to find himself in; Mycroft had handled it all about as well as could be expected. If he were truly honest with himself, he had canceled far more dates than Mycroft had even considered; most of the time, it was for Mycroft’s brother.

 

Greg took a breath, reminded himself that it was Valentine’s Day, and turned back to Anthea. His eyes caught on the garment bag once more. He wanted to zip it open, see what was inside for himself, but he already knew what was in there. “Hélène Darroze, then. Reservations are for what time?”

 

“Seven o’clock. A car will pick you up at the end of your shift; Mr. Holmes-Lestrade should be in contact before then, barring any unforeseen emergencies.”

 

“Of course.” Greg’s mind ran through the bevy of potential emergencies that were likely to crop up between the two of them on any given day. Mycroft starting a third World War was always a pressing concern; in this day and age, there was the very real possibility of Greg being shot down on a call—that is, if a member of whatever security Mycroft had tailing Greg didn’t intercept the bullet first. Lastly—and perhaps most importantly—there was the constant and pressing issue of whatever trouble Sherlock was causing. Last week he’d needed a breaking and entering charge thrown out; the week before, he’d found himself hospitalized with hypothermia after a dip in the Thames.

 

Greg wasn’t a detective because he couldn’t make a deduction or two on his own; he figured it was safe to assume their plans would most likely hinge on Sherlock’s ability to stay out of trouble for longer than an evening. It was no different than the way they’d _been_ living their day-to-day lives; Valentine’s Day was no more or less likely to give Sherlock cause to tone down his behaviours.

 

Greg made a mental note to say an extra Hail Mary for John, the saint that he was.

 

Anthea stood from her perch, locking the screen on her Blackberry and giving the barest hint of a nod to the second coffee sitting on the desk. Expression carefully composed to convey an air of apathy, she asked, “Is Detective Sergeant Donovan in?”

 

Greg’s mouth twitched with a grin. “Yeah, I think I saw her. Want me to pass the coffee along when we give report in a few?”

 

Anthea smoothed her skirts; for the first time all morning, she graced Greg with a small smile. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take it to her on my way out.” Gesturing to the white paper bag on the desk, she said, “Mr. Holmes-Lestrade sent breakfast as well.”

 

“I would ask you to _extend my gratitude_ , but I can manage a text well enough on my own. Thanks, Anthea.” Greg watched as she picked up the coffee and stepped carefully around the desk; he craned his neck to look at her as she headed for his office door. “One more thing?”

 

She paused and turned back to look at him, brows raised. “Yes, sir?”

 

He smiled. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 

Anthea’s shoulders relaxed slightly; she returned the smile and tightened her fingers imperceptibly around the cup. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you as well, Detective Inspector.”

 

The moment the door clicked behind her back, Greg was behind his desk and unzipping the garment bag holding his suit. Again, he didn’t need to look to know what specifically it held: he knew, just like he’d known all those years ago that Mycroft was his endgame, just like he knew the quality of a day based on the sound of one of Mycroft’s sighs.

 

Greg unzipped the garment bag, stomach swooping with the knowledge of what he’d find and what, specifically, it meant for their evening. Greg knew why Anthea had brought the suit she did. Deeper than that, Greg knew why Mycroft had it sent to the office and planned for a car to pick Greg up the moment he was off-duty. There would be no question, no room for modification when it came to the dresswear.

 

The suit had been purchased specifically from a shop on Savile Row and tailored to Greg’s measurements precisely; it was a deep charcoal grey, fine-spun British wool cut cleanly across his shoulders. It tapered his waist, made him look slimmer than he thought he was. The suit was fresh-pressed and likely coordinated with whatever Mycroft was planning to wear tonight. Greg only ever wore this suit— _the_ suit, really—for one reason.

 

Mycroft wanted to bottom.

*

 

[Sent]           9:24AM

I hope you’re planning on making tonight worth my while xxx

 

Mycroft        9:27AM

I can guarantee that you will find the evening immensely pleasurable. The roses are beautiful, by the way. Far more preferable than the singing telegram I received for my birthday last year.

 

[Sent]           9:31AM

sending naughty texts in the middle of matters of national importance, are we? must be riveting news

 

[Sent]           9:31AM

and how was I supposed to know it was going to arrive smack in the middle of negotiations with China?

 

Mycroft        10:07AM

You weren’t. I suppose that’s the entire point of a surprise telegram, is it not?

 

[Sent]           1:51PM

sorry I couldn’t talk long, love. duty calls! see you tonight xxx

 

Mycroft        2:02PM

Please be safe while you’re out saving the world. I’m looking forward to that lie-in tomorrow.

 

Mycroft        2:02PM

I love you.

 

*

 

There were a few things in life Greg was one hundred percent sure about. Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade’s penchant for sending signals via formal dress attire was one of them Greg fancied he had down to a science.

 

Most evenings, Greg bottomed. It was—it was a control thing for Mycroft, Greg thought. Mycroft was in control of virtually every aspect of his life; up to a point (namely, when Greg came along), sex had barely even _been_ on his radar. When it came to sex, there was too much reliance on outside forces. Things in his life, Mycroft had decided early on, ran far smoother when his interactions with people outside of the communications necessitated by his profession were limited. That, Greg supposed, was where he’d stumbled in and bollocksed up Mycroft’s entire system.

 

Mycroft had, unsurprisingly, automatically deferred to topping when things first started. It all played into that control. Greg enjoyed bottoming—hell, most nights, he preferred it—so it was never a thought that crossed his mind until Mycroft had asked to bottom for the first time.

 

Mycroft had explained it to him once. It was about the feeling of being taken care of and caring for another in return. It was the sensation of taking all of that carefully reined control and placing it in Greg’s hands to do with it as he pleased. It was terrifying and exhilarating for both of them the first few times, Greg having all that power and Mycroft being given the allowance to completely let go. Passing that control on, even for a few brief moments, was one of the greatest releases Mycroft could hope to have.

 

It was up to Greg to ensure he took that responsibility seriously.

 

Greg and Mycroft each had their preferences, but moods and desires were apt to change when circumstance came into play. Tonight, seemingly, was one of those nights.

 

Greg was always more than happy to play along.

 

Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella outside The Connaught when the car pulled up to the curb that evening. He watched, eyes gleaming, as Greg bounded out before the car rolled to a complete stop and nearly stumbled on his way to Mycroft’s side.

 

“M’sorry I’m late, love,” Greg sighed. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, palm settling rightly against the small of his back. Mycroft smelled familiar and comforting, a mixture of smoke and the bergamot notes of his cologne. Greg allowed his mouth to linger a beat too long.

 

Mycroft gave him a small, fond smile and led the way back into the hotel. He already knew how Greg’s day had gone; he could see it in the lines around his eyes and tension held in his neck and shoulders. He asked anyways. “Busy day, I presume?”

 

Greg let out another breath. “We had a slew of domestics today—those things always spike around the holidays, you know. Money’s tight, tensions are high—spurned lovers and mistresses, the like. Nothing as exciting as a murder, which is lucky for John, I s’pose. I’d hate for him to miss out on Valentine’s Day because Sherlock had a string of serial killings to solve.”

 

Mycroft raised a single brow. “Yes, that would certainly be unfortunate—but not so unfortunate as plans being canceled for a dinner to discuss politics, hm?”

 

Greg shrugged. He’d had the day to think over it, and he couldn’t complain. They’d have the night together, not to mention the entire next day. That was still more time than he knew Mycroft preferred to spend away from the office. “Coming with you is better than being left at home alone, yeah?”

 

A wicked smile cut across Mycroft’s face. “The man we’re meeting this evening asked if I would like to bring my spouse along as he was planning to bring his wife. He’s expecting a woman despite the name change—our union is not well-known yet, of course, but in this day and age one should know better than to make such an assumption.”

 

“Ah, so my presence here really serves as entertainment for you,” Greg teased. “You didn’t _actually_ —"

Mycroft intercepted the comment. “Hush; you know that’s the furthest thing from the truth. If I were to have the choice, Gregory, you know where we would be. As it stands, we’re here.” Another one of those private smiles. “There are, of course, a few perks to the dinner. You look stunning in that suit—”

 

“—bunch of bloody fanservice, putting me in this thing—”

 

“—and you know how I love any opportunity to exploit the idiocy of the some of the imbeciles I’m forced to deal with on a daily basis.”

 

“Wouldn’t it have been kinder to drop a mention of my name somewhere in conversation? Made him feel a little _less_ idiotic?”

 

Mycroft _hmphe_ d and ushered Greg in the direction of the restaurant. “The people I work with have no business in my personal life; I would prefer to keep it that way. Part of that includes not discussing impertinent details.”

 

“Shit, Myke, you don’t think my gender is a _pertinent detail_?”

 

His husband’s mouth quirked into a smile typically reserved for home. “Your gender concerns no one but me, I’ll have you know,” he murmured primly. “Perhaps I should check on that once we get home lest I forget what, specifically, is stowed away in your trousers.”

 

Greg laughed. “You’ve forgotten already? Short-term memory’s gone to shite now that you’re an old married man?”

 

“Short-term memory, hm?”

 

Greg leaned into Mycroft’s side, ignoring the looks they were receiving from some of the restaurant’s patrons. Pitching his voice low, he murmured, “I know you remember; you’re just _making_ me say it. This morning, in the shower? And then you send this bloody suit with Anthea like some sort of secret code—”

 

“The only thing better than seeing you in that suit is seeing it crumpled in a heap on the floor,” Mycroft whispered in return. “I’m a simple man with simple tastes. A nice cup of Earl Grey, an exquisite man in a bespoke suit—is that too much to ask for?”

 

Greg barked out a laugh. “No, I s’pose not, though _simple_ is the last word in the dictionary I’d use to describe you.” Greg dropped his hand from its spot at Mycroft’s waist as they came into view of the other patrons in the restaurant. Instead they walked side-by-side, too close to be mistaken as friends or colleagues. Mycroft led the way, jaw set and his eyes trained above the gazes of those peering up as they weaved through the tables.

 

Greg rubbed his thumb over the patch of skin worn rough and thick just below where his wedding ring sat. For the first time in months, it felt heavy and conspicuous in its place on his finger. It was a simple band, easy enough to be forgotten about or overlooked if a person wasn’t checking to see that Greg was married. Greg joked that a ring such as the ones originally selected by Mycroft would’ve made Greg look like a kept man. The rings they’d chosen in the end were much like the love they shared: quiet and classic bands of white gold, sturdy and strong enough to weather everyday life. Greg and Mycroft didn’t need extravagant jewelry to signify their partnership—Greg would’ve been happy even if he didn’t have a ring at all, when it was all said and done.

 

He was happy to be Mycroft’s, and that was the beginning and end of it all.

 

*

 

Hands.

Fingers—deft fingers, long, nimble-boned and dexterous—plying at his throat, tugging impatiently at the tie he’d knotted a few hours prior to the evening’s turn. Cool fingertips meeting the hot flesh of Greg’s throat, gooseflesh pimpling up his arms at the sensation of cloth on fingers and fingers on skin and—

 

Tugging, tugging, knot pulling free, tie slipping round his neck and through the collar. A flash of maroon as the fabric was dropped carelessly to the floor, and Greg sucked in a great breath because he hadn’t realized it, but he’d been unable to breathe all night.

 

A mouth, too: wickedly sinful, notes of Billecart-Salmon Rosé at the back of his palate, ripe red fruits and the tang of blood orange. Greg’s tongue swept across the inside of Mycroft’s mouth, searching for a taste. Greg suckled at Mycroft’s tongue, mouth a little too rough, a little too hungry; Mycroft whimpered a breathless moan against the pressure of Greg’s mouth and broke away from the kiss.

 

“Bed,” he managed, craning his neck back when Greg reached for his mouth once more.

 

Greg growled low in his chest and rocked forward on his toes to make up for the slight height difference between the two of them. He landed a kiss on the corner of a mouth, glanced his lips off a chin, streaky prints left behind as proof of Greg’s having been there. He spotted a slew of kisses down along the sharp line of Mycroft’s jaw, left a smear of them down the lovely pale slope of his neck, teeth nipping gently at the sensitive flesh where pulse threatened to pound through skin.

 

Mycroft groaned, fingers working blindly at the buttons of Greg’s jacket. He shucked it off Greg’s shoulders once the final button came loose; it hit the floor.

 

“You’ve got me all wrapped up like a gift for you, and here you are rushing it,” Greg chuckled. “Don’t you want to take your time? Open me up properly?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “The only one being opened up properly tonight,” he said, fingers making quick work of Greg’s cufflinks, “is me.”

 

Greg’s breath stuttered and died in his throat. He blinked rapid-pace, mind processing what he had heard. Slowly, Greg said, “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that? Do I tell you that often enough?”

 

Greg ducked his head and nipped at Mycroft’s collarbone through his shirt. Mycroft gave a breathless whimper, then: mouths crashing together once more, hands skirting away from working at the topmost button of Greg’s shirt to grip at his hips and pull him close-close- _closer_ , waists notching together as if they were the last two pieces of a seemingly impossible puzzle. It was one that had taken every year of Greg’s friendship with Sherlock and a failed bribery, the subsequent passage of information solely out of concern and the onslaught of emotion that came unbidden with the meetings they kept secret for so long.

 

 _I am in love with you_ , Greg thought, and he kissed Mycroft deeper.

 

Greg dragged his thumb across the delicate patch of skin just behind Mycroft’s ear, rubbed the callused pad across the softness there. He pushed his fingers back through his hair and half-led, half-followed as they stumbled down the dark hall to their bedroom.

 

Piece by piece, the suit dropped to the floor.

 

The tie: tossed carelessly and hanging over a lamp.

 

The jacket: left in the sitting room, shoulders crumpled up as if in question.

 

The shirt and the buttons that had inevitably popped off in Mycroft’s haste to undress Greg as quickly as possible: pitched against the wall in the hallway and lying in a heap on the floor, scattered perfectly so that the next morning one of them would inevitably step on a button.

 

(And Greg wondered just what the tailors on Savile Row thought of the frequency with which that particular suit found its way to their shop for repairs. Surely they wondered; surely they talked).

 

The trousers: shucked somewhere just inside the bedroom, one leg inside-out and Greg’s pants caught somewhere inside the other leg.

 

Mycroft’s clothes were scattered in a heap on the floor next to the bed, his usual care and attention paid to clothing listed away by the desire throbbing in every inch of his body. The only things that had made it safely to their rightful place—the box sitting atop the dresser—were Greg’s and Mycroft’s cufflinks, two pairs of a matching set they’d exchanged as wedding gifts.

 

Greg stood and stared at his husband, fine-boned and freckled, pale skin peppered with red hairs that sprung coarse against Greg’s fingertips when he pressed a palm to Mycroft’s chest and crowded him backwards onto the bed.

 

Mycroft’s knees hit the edge of the mattress first, then his arse. He clambered back, all arms and elbows and legs as he spread his knees and allowed Greg to slip between the creamy expanse of his thighs. Hungry eyes swallowed his face, pupils blown and eyes heavy-lidded with desire as Greg positioned himself between Mycroft’s legs.

 

“Budge up, love,” Greg murmured. He pressed the fronts of his thighs against the backs of Mycroft’s, stroked gently over the curve of his knee. He followed the pale line of his lover’s leg, traced through the bristly red hairs patching over his skin down to the fine-boned ankle and back.

 

Greg traced his thumb further back, finger dipping into the tender secret space of the back of Mycroft’s knee, soft flesh and tendon and joint, further

        up

                    up

                                up

to the crease where thigh met buttock. He traced the crescent of his thumbnail lightly along that space, the spot where the rounded curve of Mycroft’s arsecheek swelled out before dipping back, flattening out into the bulk of his runner’s thigh.

 

Mycroft trembled beneath Greg.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes and tipped his head back obediently, nipples taut pink buds against the alabaster canvas of his skin.

 

Greg suckled at the pads of the thumb and forefinger on his free hand. He reached forward and plucked at one of the nipples as if it were a bowstring, tweaking and toying until Mycroft’s back arched off the bed and his cock slapped painfully against his belly.

 

He let out a shuddering breath. “That’s— _ah_ —that’s good,” he managed, voice wispy. He shifted on the bed so more of his arse was on display and in Greg’s lap. Greg allowed his fingers to stray just long enough to ghost a finger over the seam of Mycroft’s arse.

 

Greg stretched out an arm and reached for the lubricant on the nightstand. He flipped open the cap with his thumb and poured a little into his palm, warming the cold liquid with the heat from his hand. He dragged his index finger through it, slicked the finger up and nudged it between Mycroft’s cheeks.

 

Greg pushed.

 

Mycroft’s breath hissed out between his teeth as Greg pressed his finger into the second knuckle. Greg pulled his arm back just slightly, paused with just the fingertip breaching his husband’s entryway once more.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Sea-dark eyes flashed to Greg’s face. “You’re questioning this now?” came the response, curt and desperate all at the same time. Softer, so soft Greg was possibly mistaken in hearing it at all, Mycroft said, “I want this. I want you.” He was drowning in it.

 

Greg’s finger sank in all the way this time. Mycroft bore down on the pressure of Greg’s finger, walls tightening at the intrusion. It was uncomfortable at first, Greg knew that. If he could just find—

 

Mycroft cried out, hips bucking off the mattress as Greg’s finger crooked up and pressed against the bundle of nerves the lit up every atom in Mycroft’s body. Greg stroked over that spot again, reveling in the noises clawing their way free from Mycroft’s throat as he glanced the tip of his index finger over Mycroft’s prostate.

 

Greg pulled out completely and circled the ring of muscle surrounding Mycroft’s entrance slowly, tantalizingly so, fingers rimming the puckered flesh of his hole.

 

“ _Please_ , Greg,” Mycroft gasped, fingers scrabbling at the bedsheets. He rocked his hips forward futilely, body aching for contact.

 

“Hm? Please what?”

 

Two fingers now, sucked into the fluttering-contracting-expanding of Mycroft’s hole. Greg slicked him up, stretched him out, scissored his fingers and dipped in a little too far, a little too hard. Mycroft’s body clamped down around Greg’s hand.

 

“Please fuck me,” Mycroft ground out.

 

“You’ve waited all day long—all night, too. You don't want to wait any longer?” Greg chuckled. He leaned forward and traced a kiss over Mycroft’s mouth. He tasted sweet, desperate, like wine and Greg and desire. 

 

Greg kissed him again, breathed in the scent of skin and sweat and cologne—sharp and musky, mingled notes of the wine they’d shared over dinner and the cheap cologne Greg still swore by. Greg added a third finger and pressed his mouth into the hollow of Mycroft’s throat.

 

“I love you,” he whispered into his skin. He closed his eyes, breathed in. He was lucky. He was so, so lucky to be loved by a man like Mycroft Holmes. “I love you,” he said again, just for good measure.

 

Mycroft pressed a hand to the back of Greg’s head. He shuddered against Greg’s fingers still working inside him. His body spasmed with every brush against that white-hot bundle of nerves; he twined his fingers in Greg’s hair and held him close. “Gregory Lestrade-Holmes,” he groaned, “you are everything.”

 

Greg propped himself up, reached down with his free hand and pumped himself a few times. Mycroft’s eyes locked onto Greg’s fist moving slowly over his own prick, foreskin retracting with each tug to showcase the shiny red head of Greg’s cock. He licked his lips and lifted his eyes to Greg’s, gaze glimmering in the twilit shadows of their bedroom.

 

Greg slipped his fingers free and lined the head of his cock along Mycroft’s slick entrance. He dragged the tip back and forth along the wet line of his arse, spongy head smearing through the lubricant. Mycroft whimpered, canted his hips in the direction Greg was taking his cock. The lovely pale column of his throat was flushed with blood; his lips were velveteen and bitten-pink. Mycroft exhaled loudly out his nose and pressed his heels into the small of Greg’s back.

 

The head of Greg’s cock popped in, hot pressure swallowing him whole and sparking stars across the front of his vision. He gripped at Mycroft’s waist hard enough to leave fingerprints and inched his way in, breaching Mycroft’s passage in centimeter-like increments before pulling out and pushing back in.

 

Greg rocked into Mycroft slowly at first, one hand steadied at his husband’s hip and the other braced on the mattress to hold him up. He canted his hips forward, eyes locked firmly on Mycroft’s.

 

This was about control for Mycroft.

 

It was about sex, too, the shared act of giving and receiving pleasure from another person, but Greg knew that Mycroft did this—gave himself over like this—because he felt safe. Because he felt desired.

 

Because he knew that of all the foxholes and haunts in the world, with Greg was one of the few places he could feel safe. He could let go. He could allow himself to be loved in larger spaces than merely the scraps and corners left after a long workday. Greg loved being able to give that to Mycroft.

 

For all the hunger in their touches, all the raw desire in their shared looks, there was love in unparalleled amounts.

 

 _I need you_ and _I want you_ and _you are my home_ , the weight of _finally_ and _it took you so long to see me_ constant and suffocating at the back of their lingering hands and starved mouths. Three years could not eradicate the burning acrid scent of regret, of waiting too long, fearing too much, placing too much value on the things that ultimately did not matter in the end.

 

Too long, Greg knew. It had taken them too long to really see what was going on. He could find Mycroft Holmes at any time, in any life, and any amount of waiting would be entirely too long.

 

Greg thrusted into Mycroft, bodies fusing together as Mycroft arched off the bed and into Greg’s touch. The sensations swelled, swooping low in Greg’s stomach and going high enough to practically choke him with the pleasure of it all.

 

Mycroft’s breath came in quick little puffs across Greg’s cheek, whimpers and moans wrenching themselves from deep within his throat.

 

Greg sank into the warm pliability of Mycroft’s body, cock squeezed from every angle by the delicious urgent pressure of Mycroft’s hole. He fucked into him, buried himself so deeply inside of Mycroft that every atom in his body hummed with pleasure at the thought alone of being inside of him.

 

He was there.

  
They were one in mind, body, soul, and everything in between.

 

Greg only ever wore the suit for one reason—and it was so, so worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Not britpicked - any and all errors are my own.
> 
> World's biggest thank you goes to mottlemoth & anyone else involved in arranging The Mystrade Valentine's Calendar! It's been a really lovely month so far, and everyone should be beyond proud not only of the work they've accomplished but of the inclusive fandom they've cultivated. It's a lovely place to be!
> 
> Lots of love, wine, and smut to my fic wife mercymain - I am forever thankful to you for putting up with my crazy ideas and reining me in when I get too out of hand. This fic likely wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you!
> 
> Let's hang out on tumblr!
> 
> uninspire-me.tumblr.com


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